Lionheart
by heavenbows
Summary: Logan reveals the threat that hovers over Albion and, in doing so, changes events from the path that Fate and a certain Seer originally wrought. Fable III AU.
1. Prologue: The Weight of the World

**Title: **Lionheart

**Rating:** T

**Genre:** Adventure/Friendship

**Summary:** Logan reveals the threat that hovers over Albion and, in doing so, changes events from the path that Fate and a certain Seer originally wrought. Fable III AU.

**A/N:** My intention with this story is to re-tell the story of the Princess of Albion in a very different light, and examine how small changes snowball to create an entirely different tale. Logan's decisions were what sparked the story of Fable III and his choices guided it down a particular path. What if, then, he had chosen a different course, perhaps without even realising it? For the most part, I will try to stick to a straight AU along these lines, although I intend to slightly alter other details that occurred before his return to Albion for the makings of a better story. Please do review, as I would love to hear the thoughts of my readers!

* * *

The first rays of dawn were cast over Albion as the Auroran ship sailed into Bowerstone Harbour, painting the world with a golden hue that seemed to promise the happy ending that Albion always received. Usually, the sight of his kingdom – his _home_ – brought Logan great joy, especially after yet another expedition. No matter what corner of the world he travelled to, no matter what marvels he witnessed, for the King of Albion nothing could compare to the jewel of a city that his mother had built up through hard work, dedication and unrivalled leadership.

The reminder that it could all soon be swept away, however, chased any scrap of calm from Logan. He paced the deck ceaselessly, looking back at the horizon rather than forwards to his home.

_The Crawler_. Aptly named, he thought with a shudder, for a creature that made his skin crawl just to think of it. That laughing, mocking beast – the constant onslaught of those shadowy _children_ – the screams of his men – the pressing darkness—

A hand on his shoulder jolted him out of his memories with a cry that he instantly tried to muffle as he looked over at the woman beside him.

"Dwelling on the Crawler will not halt it, King Logan," Kalin said. "But dwelling on a solution – for that, Aurora will be eternally grateful."

The reference to his promise was a dagger to Logan's conscience and he did his best not to grimace as he stepped away. Part of him wondered if he ought to tell Kalin that the Crawler would progress to Albion and, as King, his duty lay with his own people before the ragtag natives of a distant land. The thought of leaving them to the mercy of the Crawler filled him with shame, as did any action that Logan felt did not live up to the standards of his mother, but surely he could not justify spending money on an army for Aurora rather than Albion.

"Well," he began, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I cannot help but be concerned for the welfare of those in the Crawler's path."

Precise wording was a skill he had acquired as quickly as he could when he came to the throne. Despite being a young king, Logan had known the importance of being both just and intelligent and he had found that an important part of being as good as one's word was to know _precisely_ what one was saying.

Or perhaps that was just the justification he cobbled together.

Kalin gave him a searching look, as though she suspected he was saying more than he let on, and Logan quickly looked away. Fortunately, the ship was just drawing into port and the ensuing bustle – including a good deal of gawking at the odd vessel and crew – allowed Logan to slip away without answering any further questions—

Well. Questions from _Kalin_, at least. Sir Walter, as always, was awaiting his return at the docks. No matter when Logan returned from a trip, the man was somehow always there to greet him. Usually, it was something Logan was grateful for; he would eagerly discuss with Walter what he had seen and learned, raising issues that needed attention in various parts of Albion and asking for advice on how to solve them.

Now, however, Logan wanted nothing more than a day of privacy in which to plan how much he would tell to whom. He needed the war room, Jasper and the treasury ledgers so that he could work out how to save six and a half million citizens, raise an army to fight an insurmountable foe and rebuild the kingdom once it had been ravaged by the Crawler and its demonic children.

As it truly began to sink in just how great the challenges facing him would be, Logan considered blurting out everything to the man who had been his mother's most trusted advisor. If Walter could not think of a solution, who could?

But… No. Patience. Planning. Preparation. That was what Albion required from him now.

Therefore, as he assured Kalin one last time that Aurora could count Albion as an ally and handed over a purse of gold to feed and find rooms for her men before returning home, Logan resolved to keep the news to himself for now. If nothing else, he reasoned, Walter would not be prepared for the sheer horror of the Crawler. How could one understand it, without living through it?

The old soldier, of course, recognised immediately that things were far from right. Quite apart from the lack of the ship and crew he set out with, Logan was thin and pale, ravaged by his struggle to survive what the Crawler had inflicted on him and worry causing even more weight to drop from him. The king had never been a heavy-set man, but now he was positively skeletal.

"What in blazes happened to you, Logan?" Walter demanded with his usual bluntness, bushy eyebrows drawn together in concern.

_None of your concern_, he nearly snapped, tempted to throw up his kingly demeanour to deflect questions. Such an act, however, he knew would not wash well with straight-talking Walter and would likely do more harm than good.

Instead, he forced a small, probably incredibly insincere-looking smile. "Hell, old friend. Hell. But I'm tired, aching and longing to be back at the castle, so I would ask that the discussion wait until later."

"Of course." Walter laid a hand on Logan's shoulder and guided him towards the waiting carriage. "Come on. And remember, whatever it is, we'll see it right."

"I hope so."

A gaggle of townsfolk had gathered to ogle at the Auroran ship and then at the king who had, for once, not returned with smiles and joyful greetings. Logan ignored them and was glad for their stunned silence; he was sure that if he actually looked at them – took in individual faces and identities – he would be sick at the possibility of their deaths. Instead, he climbed into the carriage and sagged backwards, not even attempting to cling to dignity. Eyes slipping closed, he heard Walter climb in after him and sit across from him.

"Rose will be waiting for you." A pause; Logan could feel Walter's eyes on him. "But I'm sure Jasper can keep her distracted until a… well, a better time."

Another stab of guilt. There seemed to be an endless supply of them now. Although there was a cavernous gap of twelve years between them, Logan adored his little sister. Given that their mother had died when Rose was little more than a toddler, Logan had been her world – a strange mixture of awkwardly strict parent, indulgent older brother and imperious king. Mostly, though, he had to admit, he played the indulgent older brother, unable to stand seeing her so much as pout. Being reunited with his sister was what Logan always looked forward to most about returning to Albion and he never neglected to bring her a gift; a little curiosity from wherever he had visited. It may not have much monetary value, but it always inspired a wealth of questions from the curious little girl.

Even with the horror of the Crawler hanging over him, Logan had managed to find something for Rose in Aurora. During one of his many sleepless nights, he had grown bored of lying on his pallet waiting for nightmares to eventually claim him. Instead, he ventured out into the city and began to explore the land that was already becoming a shadow of its former self. As he turned his eyes away from yet another letter to a lost loved one pinned to a building, Logan had spotted a spray of wildflowers pushing their way up through a crack in the stones that formed vague, haphazard paths through the main streets

At first, he dismissed them as weeds but, when he enquired about them the next day, Logan had discovered they were in fact quite rare and had collected a number of specimens for Rose. Some he had pressed on the voyage home, and some he had simply kept the seeds of; Rose, rather appropriately given her name, had been going through a phase of wanting to garden when he left. Not entirely appropriate for a princess, but Logan didn't have the heart – or, he had to admit, the time – to scold her.

"Have Jasper tell Rose I will receive her later," he decided eventually, not wishing to disappoint his sister entirely. Besides, it would hopefully work in his favour; Rose emanated cheerfulness and exuberance wherever she went, qualities that Logan could well use a dose of as the reality of their situation truly set in.

Walter nodded his acquiescence. "She'll understand."

Another long silence reigned, during which Logan could tell that Walter was desperate to question him further about his travels. Thankfully, the old soldier managed to restrain himself and keep to his word until they reached the castle, a fact for which Logan was very grateful. It had been the truth when he said he couldn't speak of it now – hell, he wasn't sure he could speak of it _at all_. How could he begin to put it into words?

Numerous nobles and a number of servants were awaiting his arrival at the castle to greet him. A groan echoed around the carriage and it took Logan a moment to realise it had come from him. Immediately, he sat up straighter and prepared to say a few words; it was one thing to ignore the rabble at the docks, but quite another to sweep past some of the highest-ranking people in Albion. King he may be, but Logan knew the dangers of being too unpopular. Hopefully he would never have to experience it first-hand.

Walter, he noticed, was giving him a smile; the same sort of expression he remembered from his childhood, when he would try desperately to keep up with and understand affairs of state.

"Nobody will blame you for skipping the niceties, Logan."

They _would_, though, of that Logan was sure. Or, even if he wasn't criticized, there would be rumours springing up immediately and by the time he was ready to face the world properly half of Albion would be convinced he was on the brink of death. No, better to at least show _some_ willing now.

"I'll just give them a few words," he told Walter. Thankfully, before the old soldier could disagree, the coachman opened the door and Logan stepped out.

From the collective gasp and then hush that greeted him, Logan realised he must look even worse than he thought he had. Smiling was impossible – it would likely be more of a grimace – so instead he settled for what he hoped was a suitably regal expression. He stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, striving to give off an aura of a man who could not – who _would_ not – be questioned.

"Good day to you all," he began, inclining his head to the courtiers. "It brings me great joy to return to Albion, and greater joy still to see all of you here, particularly at such an early hour."

Propriety, it seemed, had one good use after all, for when Logan paused, the courtiers immediately filled the silence with murmurs that _of course_ they would greet their king upon his return. For the first time since he set foot back in Albion, Logan relaxed slightly. This exchange was something he could handle. He knew the lines, the steps in the dance.

"I must have torn you all from your beds, however, and since I intend to take to my own presently, I shall not keep you from your rest any longer," he continued. "I hope that I may count on your presence at dinner this evening, though."

Duties done, he made to enter the castle – the courtiers parted for him, bowing and curtseying and toadying in every way they knew how; the two-faced subservience always grated on Logan most when he was freshly returned to Albion and had forgotten how aggravating it could be – only for the doors to be flung open and a small body fly at him, arms latching on tightly.

"_Logan_! You're back! I _knew_ you'd be back today, I said so at dinner last night, but Jasper didn't _believe_ me!"

"Ah…" Foolishly, forgetting Rose's tendency to fly in the face of protocol, he had expected his sister would be kept safely occupied elsewhere until he was prepared to face her. Anger, albeit milder and more distant than it would be if he were not so exhausted, that Jasper had failed to keep control over the young princess strikes him, only to be followed by pride that his sister refused to let herself be ordered. A true princess in that respect; perhaps a way that was more important than protocol and frippery.

Scrambling for some semblance of control, Logan cleared his throat and gently but firmly pushed Rose away from him so he could get a good look at her, hands remaining on her shoulders. She had grown since he left, he was sure; an inch at the very least. If she kept up this pace, she would be taller than him eventually, perhaps even rivalling their mother. Her height ought to give her the air of being older, but she still had the gawkish look of a child growing into herself and, of course, she was dressed not one of the many ornate gowns that befit her station, but a too-big shirt and breeches, shoes neglected altogether. Combined with her uncombed bed hair – a shade of brown that is distinctly lighter than his raven hair and only heightened her resemblance to their mother – she looked more like an urchin than a princess.

Had she been a few years older, Logan would have had certain theories as to how she came to be wearing clothes that look as though they belong to a minor nobleman, but, knowing his sister as he did, not even the instincts of an older brother could imagine a scenario other than the obvious: Rose has clearly sneaked that friend of hers – Edward? Everett? – up to her room for companionship other than a puppy and an elderly butler and grabbed the first garments (taken off for nothing but changing into nightgowns) that came to hand when she realised her brother was home.

Her face was shining with happiness and Logan felt his own fear and doubts slide away when faced with such innocent joy. In a most un-regal move, he crouched down and pulled her back to him in a tight hug, never wanting to let go. There were so many things he ought to say, and even more than he _wanted_ to say but wouldn't be proper in such a setting, but, propriety or not, nothing would get past the sudden lump in his throat. It threatens to strange him, plugging him against escaping words and incoming breath. More intense even than that, though, was _relief_; an irrational sense that everything would come well now that Rose was here, safe and whole in his arms. Disobedient, irreverent, _precious_ Rose, who would roam like a gypsy if she could and feared nothing in the world, except perhaps her brother's disapproval and disappointment. Rose, whom he only just now realised he had been worrying endlessly about since he regained his senses in Aurora.

"Logan," she whispered, the unfamiliar note of uncertainty in her voice bringing him sharply back to the present. "Logan, are… are you _crying_?"

He was, he realised, and hastened to blink away the tears. To show such emotion in public brought a hot flush to his cheeks and Logan was thankful that his face must be all but hidden, given the position he was in. Thank the Light for small mercies.

"Of course not," he replied as steadily as he could, unable to stop a smile at Rose's raised eyebrows. "Truly, sister. Nothing could be wrong now I am home, could it?"

That got a smile out of her. "No, it couldn't. Where did you go, Logan? What did you find? Were there monsters? Did you fight them?"

The questions provoked a chill in Logan, which ran mercilessly down his spine and he fought not to shudder, fearful of disturbing Rose.

"I… I… I'll tell you later," he promised, delaying tactics his only hope. "For now, go back to Jasper. I daresay he'll have words for you."

Rose pulled a face at the prospect of a lecture – albeit a gentle one – about proper decorum for a princess. "I don't see why I have to act like a lady."

"Because you _are_ a lady," Logan reminded her, and a laugh bubbled up in him; the first in what seemed like eternity. "Oh, I missed you, sister."

"And I missed you! So much! You're staying for a long time, now, aren't you, Logan? You won't go again soon?"

The blind seer's promise of five years of grace before the Crawler came to Albion rang again in Logan's mind like the tolling of a funeral bell and he shook his head as he let go of Rose. "No, sister. I promise you I will not be going anywhere for a long time."

Rose, bless her innocent heart, heard no foreboding in his words. She knew nothing of the Crawler and its evil, nothing of the trials of Aurora and the broken promise that would render Logan the most despicable of oath-breakers. All she heard was a promise of the presence of her brother, something to be celebrated, and Logan watched her charge off back to Jasper and the pup he had brought home after his last venture with a mixture of bittersweet happiness, melancholy and envy.

This was Rose, his sister, his princess, whom his mother had charged him with protecting and whom he would guard until the very last breath was pulled from his body, or may the Darkness take his wretched soul.

Rose, whom he now knew he needed to protect Albion for. Who inspired in him a greater need to defend than the hundreds of nameless faces he had seen at the dock. They were not his sister, his light.

Ideas were already running through Logan's mind as he straightened. Adrenaline rushed through his veins as he groped his way towards control of the situation, and it was enough to delay sleep for a while yet. Turning his head to Walter, he remarked, "I will take two hours to reacquaint myself with home again, Sir Walter, and then I would appreciate your presence in the war room. I have much to think on, and your advice would be welcome."

The old soldier's expression of relief at the promise of Logan's fears being shared assured the king that he would be easy to convince. The plan that was already forming was not one of ideal circumstances, but it seemed the best course of action nonetheless. Logan had a feeling that ideal circumstances were not to be something he was overly blessed with in the coming years.

If there was one thing he could do, though, it was make sure Rose would flourish.

It would be for Rose's sake that the Crawler never touched the shores of his Albion.

_She_ was his Albion and he would do whatever it took to keep her safe.


	2. Chapter I: A Sparrow in Aurora

Logan went straight to his rooms, pleased to find a hot bath waiting for him. After dismissing the hovering servants, he stripped and allowed himself the pleasure of relaxing in the hot water. Slowly, his tense muscles began to loosen and the cramps that had been his constant companion for several days began to ease. Pleasure was to be had, too, in the simplicity of familiar scents of soap and oils. As he washed the sweat and dirt from his body and took the lice comb to his hair, Logan allowed himself the blissful, if transient, lie that he was washing away Aurora and all that he had discovered there.

The truth came knocking once more, however, as he dried and dressed in his royal regalia. In one sense, the familiar clothing brought with it a level of comfort; it was a reminder that he was king of Albion and his will _would_ be obeyed by any and all of his subjects. Whatever he desired was his to command and nobody could sway him from his chosen course. It was the ultimate power and to know that it was the one thing the Crawler could not strip him of made Logan feel considerably more equal to the task of besting it.

Such comfort, though, had a flip-side of expectations. The fate of Albion rested on _his_ shoulders and if the chosen course he would not be swayed from turned out to be the wrong one, there would be nobody to blame but the king. But for the fact that failure would equal the decimation of his kingdom, and therefore a distinct lack of rebels or, indeed, anyone to rebel _against_, it would doubtless be grounds for revolution. Ever since he had taken the throne at fifteen, Logan had been painfully aware that he walked a tightrope, made all the more difficult because of the act he was following.

Suppose it all came out – he had not yet decided whether or not he ought to tell the citizens what would befall them – what could possibly be expected of him, but that he would go into battle without fear and with all the power, strength and courage that his mother had shown in the battle for the Tattered Spire? Tales of his mother's deeds had been Logan's childhood stories and adolescent lessons; it was impossible for comparisons _not_ to be drawn.

For all of that, though, Logan was certain that he was not a hero. There had been no spark of power in him in twenty-four years, no rush of strength, no skill beyond what long hours in the shooting range gave him. Nothing that raised him above any other man or woman of Albion in that respect. In his youth, it had been a source of shame for him and he still remembered sneaking down into the catacombs the night before his coronation to find his mother's guild seal; the relic that, if tales told truth, brought out a hero's inner spark, only for the seal to lay still and quiet in his hands. He had slunk back to his rooms with his tail between his legs and the ceremony the next day was tainted with the knowledge that he could never be the king Albion expected him to be.

Nine years later, and he thought he had made peace with his deficiency. Time and experience had shown him he did not need to be a hero to be a competent statesman; one did not need magic to observe a country and put into place sound laws that would benefit all. The strength of ten men and the skill to shoot a man down at two hundred paces would go to waste in the courtroom, where logic, aided by a measure of empathy, ruled. In fact, Logan had almost begun to believe that Fate had withheld such powers from him for that very reason; they would be wasted when his skills obviously lay elsewhere and he could serve Albion much better as he was.

Now, though, he desperately wished for power. As he pinned on his sash of medals with shaking hands, Logan prayed to the Light – even to Avo, the old, half-forgotten god of times long past – that he _had_ been made a hero and had somehow simply never realised it. Surely a mere mortal could not be expected to guide Albion through such a catastrophe as the one approaching? Surely it took a man of greater stuff than he to defeat the Crawler? Surely Fate would not be so cruel as to damn Albion by giving its citizens _him_ as their king when he could not protect the land?

Surely they would not damn Rose?

Looking at himself in the mirror, Logan did not see a confident, capable king who would guide his people through the oncoming storm. No, what he saw was not even a man, but a shadow of one; a pale, pathetic being who stared back with wide, fearful eyes. A face that had come out of so many skirmishes unmarked now bore two deep scars across his lips. The sight, combined with the trembling in his hands, removed any desire to shave, though his chin bore a coating of stubble and he generally hated not being clean shaven. A cut throat was not foremost among his desires, though, and he was too nervous and jumpy to allow a servant to shave him.

Well, damn it, it was only Walter he would be speaking to, and the old soldier's appearance was generally as gruff as his straightforward but well-meaning speech.

Logan could use straightforward and well-meaning right now.

A glance at the clock told him there was still over half an hour until their arranged meeting time, but Logan suddenly felt antsy cooped up in his rooms. He had intended to break his fast before the meeting, but his stomach was in knots and eating felt impossible, despite hunger gnawing at him. The one concession he did make to physical needs was to order plenty of tea to be sent to the war room, although privately he thought it would be a wonder if he didn't down a tumbler of whiskey before the meeting was through.

As Logan had expected, Walter had not yet come to the war room, and so he approached the map that lay in the centre of the room, gloved fingers tracing over the peaks and valleys. It showed all of Albion and part of Aurora. The latter had always confused Logan – why show a land believed dead, with no ties to Albion? Now, he froze, staring at the sandy, mountainous region. To his credit, he did not jump to the conclusion that immediately presented itself, but dutifully tried to make other explanations fit. Perhaps it was because Aurora was their nearest neighbour – but Samarkand, to name just one land, was not much further. Perhaps his mother had thought perhaps they would one day have to plot an escape from Albion for some inconceivable reason – but there were lands far more hospitable that merciless Aurora, believed devoid of life.

Yet… Surely the thought that pushed at him to accept it could not be true? No. His mother would not have kept quiet if she knew that Albion would be threatened… Unless she thought, all those years ago, the threat too distant to panic the populace about it just yet. Hadn't he himself wondered if it might be better to keep Albion in the dark about the threat pressing down on it? But Mother had been much wiser than he. She would have told _someone_, surely.

That, however, just made Logan wonder if Walter would greet his story not with horror, but with dark, knowing eyes.

Logan pushed himself away from the map, as though forcing the treacherous thoughts away from his mind. It felt like the height of betrayal that he might have gone to Aurora and sacrificed the lives of his men only to gain knowledge already had by his mother's inner circle. Desperately, he tried to deny it, thinking of Theresa. She, doubtless, would have told him if someone already knew. She was his mother's guide, she would not deprive him and Albion of allies in its greatest time of need. No, there had to be a much more mundane explanation for the existence of Aurora on Albion's map. He would, Logan decided, ask Walter himself when he arrived; he was sure to have a perfectly mundane answer that Logan would kick himself for not thinking of before.

Thus he was comforted, only to start at a knock on the door.

"Enter," he called, hearing and despising the tremor in his voice. The maid who opened the door, come to deliver the tea he had requested, shot her king a look that made her resemble nothing so much as a frightened woodland creature. It may have been comical at another moment, but Logan saw only a young woman who could not even draw strength from her leader; and what else was a leader for? Was it not his purpose to inspire his people, to keep their spirits up?

"Thank you," he said as she set the tea tray down on a table and gave him a respectful curtsey. "You may go now."

"Yessir," she mumbled, scurrying quickly from the room and forgetting not to turn her back again and to curtsey again at the door, as she ought to. Logan, however, couldn't find the heart to be angry at her. He doubted any show of minor insubordination could anger him, given the bigger issues on his mind.

To speak of which – where _was_ Walter? Twenty minutes still to go. More for something to do than because he actually wanted a drink, Logan poured himself a cup of tea and tried to focus on adding milk and sugar. As he stirred the additions in, he puzzled over the meaning of Aurora being on the map, quite forgetting his resolution not to think on it until he could ask Walter for a sensible explanation. Additionally – perhaps it was because thoughts of his mother, and Aurora, and the map, were all mixed up together – he kept thinking of the last time he had seen something that felt quite out of place in the war room. Irrelevant though the memory seemed, something tugged at Logan; a quiet but firm insistence that he was brushing something off. Looking down at his cup, he saw not the swirling ocean of tea, but a scene long ago played out.

* * *

"What the bloody hell were you _thinking_, Reaver?"

Logan, then ten years old and, having been freed from his lessons early due to completing the assigned topic, had been looking for his mother, wanting to discuss what he had learned with her. By the sound of the raised voice coming from the war room, he had found her – and _not_ in a good mood.

The young boy hesitated; every ounce of his not inconsiderable curiosity urged him to listen, while good sense told him he would likely be in for a whole world of trouble if his mother discovered he had eavesdropped on her, especially when the conversation was taking place in the war room. It was a place of immense importance, where the most serious business of the kingdom was conducted, and although the Queen was slowly but surely introducing the subject of governance to her son, she had made it quite clear that the war room was off-limits.

Of course, that only increased its attraction. In truth, Logan would have been fascinated with the centre of important decision-making no matter what he was told, but the ban only made him _more_ determined to find out what went on behind those heavy wooden doors.

Doors that were, it appeared, not thick enough to quieten his mother's voice as she worked herself up into a truly splendid rage. As he inched towards the door, crouching down next to the keyhole, Logan thought this Reaver a complete idiot to let her get so into stride – or, indeed, to have done something that so offended her in the first place.

It was harder to hear Reaver's reply; the man's voice was, in contrast to the Queen's, soft and calm. Straining his ears, Logan managed to pick up the tail end of his response.

"…know _that_ was there, my dear Sparrow."

Hearing that cleared away any doubts Logan had over eavesdropping. To the majority of Albion, the Queen was just that: the Hero Queen, her royal majesty, a fair and caring but distant figure. To the court, she was usually Queen Avelyn. Only her closest confidants used the nickname Sparrow, which Logan had never quite worked out the meaning of; his mother was no weak, insipid woman, and he would have thought it a grave insult that her so-called friends compared her to such a tiny, insignificant bird, had it not been for the way her face lit up whenever she was so addressed. For some reason, being called Sparrow made his mother happy and so, even though Logan didn't understand it, he managed not to be upset by it.

It was surprising, though, that this Reaver was a close friend and had _still_ managed to make the Queen so angry. Sometimes her other advisors – Sir Walter Beck and Major Swift, to name but two – aggravated her when they pointed out flaws in her reasoning, but that was different. She did not _rage_, she simply expressed frustration… over what, Logan wasn't sure. Not seeing those flaws for herself, he supposed.

"Oh, of _course_ you didn't!" she snarled now, and Logan tensed, wondering if he ought to fetch the guard. "There's _ever_ so much you don't know until it's _convenient_ to! What was the plan this time – were you really intending to drag me to Aurora with the sole intention of trying to sell me off to _that thing_? I would have thought you had enough on with the Sha—"

There was a loud bang, as though a piece of furniture had been overturned and his mother's voice was cut off. Reaver spoke, but his voice was too low and the words coming too quickly for Logan to make sense of what was being said, had he still been at his post. At the bang and the sudden stop to his mother's stream of rage, however, he had abandoned the door in favour of charging down the corridor, relief washing over him when he spotted a familiar uniform.

"Guard!" he cried out, trying not to tremble. "Go to the war room immediately! I think my mother needs help!"

* * *

Finally looking up from his cup, Logan's gaze drifted around the room until it alighted upon a large, ornate chair, one of several in the room. It looked heavy – certainly heavy enough to cause the bang he recalled. The bang of a chair falling over as someone who had been reclining in it stood quickly enough to knock it over, incensed by what he had just heard. _I would have thought you had enough on with the Sha—_

Whatever that meant. Logan had puzzled over it for some weeks afterwards, but eventually other issues had pushed the matter from his mind, helped by the fact that, after Reaver was ejected from the castle, the Queen spoke not one word on the matter that Logan knew of and everyone else followed her example.

What had happened after Logan alerted the guard was a blur; that soldier called others and soon a number that seemed like an army to young Logan was charging towards the war room, while servants hurried him away to Jasper, who endeavoured to keep him distracted until safety was declared once more. A fruitless task, as the butler must have known, as the tea and games went untouched as Logan paced his room, questioning Jasper endlessly about what had happened, even though he realised the butler couldn't possibly know.

In many ways, it would have been better if he had, though, for instead Logan had to rely on hearsay and gossip. Far from the most reliable source of information, of course, but as a youngster he had been forced to take what he could get. Stories varied, from the lewd (thankfully, he had been too young then to realise what the maids were _really_ insinuating when they spoke of Reaver having the Queen up against a wall) to the violent (Logan now recalled listening to one particularly detailed story courtesy of one of the grooms when he went to get his pony one day; the boy had claimed the guard found the Queen pinned to the wall by Reaver, her sword at his throat and his pistol at her temple, and the resulting fight had been so brutal it had frightened even the guard). What really happened was beyond guessing – well, he was quite sure the situation hadn't been resolved through sex, not least because Logan shuddered at the very idea of contemplating such a notion in connection with his mother.

Just as he was trying to eject that particular image from his mind, Logan was startled by the opening of the war room door. The face of a footman appeared, anxious as the maid had been.

"Sir Walter Beck to see you, Your Majesty."

Ah, at last! Something resembling a smile came to Logan's face as Walter entered the room. His very presence, emanating experience, was calming… Although Walter himself did not look entirely calm. The expression he had worn earlier at the port – that shocked, worried and concerned look – was creasing his face once more. That did not trouble Logan so much, though, as how that expression might _change_ after he told Walter what had happened.

"Logan," Walter greeted him after the footman had been dismissed, walking over to the king and laying a hand on his shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

It was a reasonable enquiry, but it struck Logan as so ridiculous that he had to fight not to laugh. "I… I've been better."

He could feel Walter's eyes on him as the older man sized up the situation; estimated how deeply he could probe.

"I noticed that you came back without your men…"

Logan felt his stomach clench as the memories crashed over him again; his men, driven to madness and torn to shreds before his very eyes by the Crawler and its demented _children_, perhaps with the intention of breaking him. Logan certainly felt as though _something_ had broken within him that day – perhaps he _had_ gone mad. Perhaps all this was a delusion of madness… Was he still under the blistering Auroran sun, only dreaming in his last moments of life that he had returned home to protect Albion? Ah, what fine irony…

"_Logan_!"

Reality swam back into perspective with the help of Walter roughly shaking him. Logan blinked, for a moment unsure of what was happening – ah. Home after all… he hoped.

He uttered no word of complaint as Walter guided him to a seat and pushed a glass of whiskey into his shaking hands. Upon receiving the glass, he tried to tighten and steady his grip, but to little avail. His whole body felt wracked by cold, as though he had spent these last weeks in the heights of Mistpeak Valley, rather than under the blazing Auroran sun.

The world seemed to spin around him, tipping and whirling as though reality itself were caught in a gale. Words caught his ear from time to time, but he could hardly make sense of them as a whole – Walter was saying something about food, and sleep, and – shock?

"…have this conversation later. Drink that, we'll get you to your room."

Drink what—? Ah, the whiskey. Managing not to spill any, Logan downed the shot in one go and warmth bloomed within him. The spinning slowed, and he was able to focus on the present once again. Damn his mind, losing the thread of reality itself! Was he truly so weak that he could not even bring himself to recount his failures in Aurora? No – he would not fail all of them in that way.

"They died."

"Eh?"

"My men died in Aurora." The words came spilling out; the world still seemed off, but regaining balance enough for him to speak, though he was still chilled to his very bones. "We found port on a deserted beach and saw a building nearby; some sort of temple, we presumed."

Walter watched him closely for a few moments, as if wondering whether he was speaking fact or spinning imaginings born of a fever. Apparently satisfied that he would receive a sensible account of the voyage, he dragged another chair over and sat opposite Logan.

"Go on," he prompted quietly. "You went in?"

"Yes. There was nothing else we could do; we could see nothing else. I thought perhaps… A temple, there are worshippers, priests, surely someone who could help us." Logan paused, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. "But there was no one. Not a soul. And it was dark, so dark, as though we had walked into night itself, though the sun had been blinding only moments ago. We came to a large chamber with a staircase leading down in the centre, but it was covered by a… a force-field of some sort – one of the soldiers suggesting it was magic and I think it must have been."

Logan trailed off, his mind drifting back to the darkness; how it had seemed so small and cramped, despite how large the chamber was. How the darkness was like a pressing weight upon him…

"Focus, Logan!" Walter's voice, though not harsh, was firm enough to draw him back. "Believe me, I know what it's like to be trapped in the dark, but you _have_ to remember. You wanted to tell me, so there's something important in all of this, isn't there?"

"I… yes," replied Logan. "Forgive me. I remember now."

"And?"

"And I wonder if I ought to be asking _you_, Sir Walter," he finished, looking the old soldier in the eyes. For now, Logan saw only confusion, but that could easily be a cover – could, in fact, be truth, if Walter hadn't realised what he was getting at.

"Ask _me_? What the bloody hell do _I_ know about any of this? I wasn't the one there, was I?"

"No, but I have no doubt that my mother shared her knowledge with you."

"What are you talking about?" Walter's confusion really did seem genuine; the old man's eyes were wide with shock at the words coming out of Logan's mouth and by the way he was clenching his fists it was clear his pride was wounded by the implication of disloyalty to his king. "Logan, your mother never went to Aurora! Apart from you, I don't think anyone's been there in… well, _centuries_, it must be!"

"On the contrary, my mother went to Aurora fourteen years ago, along with a companion of hers called Reaver. Given that she consulted yourself and Major Swift on all matters pertaining to the safety of Albion, I would find it highly unlikely she did not disclose what she discovered there to the two of you."

Walter was pale; it struck Logan that he looked almost ill. "Logan, upon my oath, your mother never told me she ever set foot in Aurora – and as far as I know, she never told Swift, either. Where did you find that out?"

"I overheard her speaking with this _Reaver_ on her return to the castle," explained Logan, watching his long-time advisor and mentor carefully. True, he had never before had reason to suspect Walter of anything other than unswerving loyalty and did not think him a good enough actor to pretend innocence so extensively. So perhaps his mother _had_ kept her trip to herself… but _why_? "As I recall, the discussion became quite… _heated_. I had to alert the guard—"

"Bloody hell," Walter swore quietly, the pieces obviously coming together. "I remember that day – I always thought there was little love lost between Reaver and your mother, but I never saw them as furious with each other as they were then. She never told me _why_, though."

"They had gone to Aurora and found something terrible there, from what I gathered. My mother seemed to think Reaver had conspired with it against her for some reason." Logan paused. He was well-versed in his mother's adventures but, for all that, he suspected there was much that had been kept from him. "It… seemed as though it was not the first time he had attempted to double-cross her."

Walter snorted. "Like I said, they were hardly the best of friends. He was an old ally of your mother's, though, never quite knew what he did to help her, but… Well, it was enough for her to tolerate him, at least."

"What a figure of mystery this man is." Logan stood, glad that the room did not begin to spin again, and began to pace the war room. "There's a lot I would like to discuss with him."

"Well, as far as I know, he's still in Bowerstone. A businessman now; he owns most of the factories in Industrial."

"Good. It shouldn't be hard for the guard to find him, then."

"The _guard_?"

"Yes, Sir Walter. I think I ought to put out an arrest warrant for him. Let's see… Threatening the reigning monarch, withholding of information pertinent to the protection of the kingdom, attempted murder is probable – tell me, do you think treason covers his list of offences?"

"Look, I wouldn't protest seeing the bastard behind bars, but for the love of Light, Logan, what _is_ this bloody threat to Albion you're talking about?"

"Ah… Yes, I didn't quite get to that part, did I?" The laugh that escaped Logan was more of a bark; humourless, hopeless. "The Aurorans who found me dying in the desert call it the Crawler. It… It's indescribable if you haven't encountered it. Darkness incarnate. Perhaps it is what the Temple of Shadows worships; perhaps it is not of this world at all. I don't know, Sir Walter, but I do know that it killed every last man who accompanied me on that voyage. It and its _children_ – little shadows, half my size, insubstantial enough that you ought to be able to dissipate them with a harsh touch, but murderous – you know, I never imagined that a shadow could _kill _you. That a shadow could drive a man to madness, so much so that he impales himself on his own sword to avoid being taken by _it_."

"By the Light…" There was more fear on Walter's face now than Logan ever recalled there being before, even eighteen years ago when there had been a rebel uprising and there had been rumours that the rebels might take Bowerstone. Perhaps, Logan reflected, he had more of a talent for illustration than he had previously guessed. "And yet you survived."

"Yes. It… It left me for last. Perhaps it sensed I was the leader and wished for me to see the true extent of the horror I had led my men into." A shudder ran through him. "Whatever the reason, it was my curse and my blessing; we had been lost in the darkness, but the… _distraction_ allowed me enough time to find the right tunnel and escape. I wandered the desert for hours until Kalin – the leader of the Aurorans left – and her people found me."

He drew in a breath, trying to keep a hold of himself. "The Crawler has devastated Aurora for years; there are but a handful of its people left, living in constant fear. I swore our aid to them, but shortly before I left I had a visitor who brought me grave news. She claimed to have guided my mother – did she ever mention a woman called Theresa?"

At the name, Walter jolted as though struck by lightning. "The Seer of the Spire? _She_ came to you?"

"A blind woman, dressed in red and white, with a hood mostly concealing her face. A seer?" Logan shrugged. "I suppose she must be; she told me she had foreseen… So her visions guided my mother also. Strange, isn't it, how much gets left out of common folklore?"

If Walter took this last remark as an insult to his storytelling, he showed no sign of it. "Sometimes, Logan, it's best if legends are left to sleep, in case keeping them awake encourages more trouble. Seems as though we won't be rid of _her_ any time soon, though. What did she say?"

"That the Crawler, although currently content to ravage Aurora, will in five years be seeking a new feast. A new land to turn into a very ghost of itself; new people to torment." As he spoke, Logan approached the map that stood in the centre of the room, caressing the sandy peaks of Aurora with one gloved hand. "Tell me, Sir Walter, which land is closest to Aurora, which might attract the attention of such a being?"

Logan had not thought it possible for Walter to lose more colour from his face, but he did, so much so that the king almost called for a doctor, fearing a sudden illness. In a few moments, though, Walter collected himself and said, with a great, shuddering sigh:

"Albion. It's Albion, isn't it?"

Logan nodded. "Five years, Sir Walter, to raise defences against something that it may well not be possible to defeat. Five years to prepare for the worst threat Albion has ever faced." His hands curled into fists. "And I don't know how to begin."

At that, Walter too stood and came to stand by the map. Although still pale and shocked, he seemed to feel better thinking of a plan. "We'll think of something, Logan. I told you we would before I knew what had happened and I still stand by it. You are your mother's son—"

"No," Logan cut him off. "I am not, and you know I am not – not in the sense you and everyone else have been hoping for. I am no Hero, Sir Walter; I cannot defeat the Crawler single-handedly by riding out with strength in my sword, skill in my gun and magic at my beckoning, although Light knows I will ride out all the same if it comes to it. But I cannot win alone; I know that."

"It might not come to that, Logan."

Logan gave a bleak bark of laughter. "Sir Walter, you are a soldier of great experience – tell me, honestly, for the sake of Albion, what are the chances of this _not_ coming to a battle?"

"…Low," admitted the soldier. "Very low. But we have five years to plan, Logan, it isn't as though this is an ambush around the next corner."

"But my mother went to Aurora," Logan reminded him. "I suspect the thing she accused of Reaver of attempting to betray her to was the Crawler. I was ten years old then, Sir Walter, do the arithmetic. There were five years between that day and her death, and nothing was done; how can I do any better in the same time?"

"You're assuming too much, Logan. Even if your mother _did_ know about this thing, and even if she had any inkling that it would come to Albion, she would have thought she had almost two decades to plan. Besides, I don't think she _did_ know – your mother would never have stayed silent about something like this, Logan, she worked too hard to defend Albion to let something like the Crawler attack us unawares."

"Then what was she talking about with Reaver?"

"I have no idea," admitted Walter. "Are you sure she said she went to Aurora?"

"Positive." Sighing, the king ran a hand through his hair. "I'll go through her old documents again when I've finished the condolence letters to the families of my men. And if we can get hold of Reaver, that would certainly help."

Walter nodded. "One step at a time. And if he can tear himself away from Bloodstone, I'll send a summons for Swift; who knows? Maybe the Queen _did_ tell him something."

"If nothing else, I would appreciate his advice. He has fought Hollow Men in the past, if I remember rightly; perhaps he can offer some means of fighting that which lies beyond our understanding."

"Right, then. I'll send a message now." Walter stood to leave, only to pause when Logan shook his head.

"First, there's another matter I wish to discuss with you. Something I would entrust to nobody but yourself."

"Oh? What is it?"

"My sister." Logan paused, choosing his words with care as the plan that had been formulating in the back of his mind now revealed itself in completeness. "I would rather Rose did not remain in Bowerstone, Sir Walter. We have five years, but even so… This would be the first point of attack, and the city will become a hive of military activity. Not the correct environment for a child, _or_ a princess, as I'm sure you'll agree. And if the Crawler were to arrive before the date given to me by Theresa…"

"Of course you want to keep her safe, but I'm not sure what I can do – unless you want me to escort her somewhere?"

"Precisely, that and more. I would have you take her to safety – perhaps the royal summer house in Millfields, it's a fair way from the coast and there's a guard presence there as it is." It would be a blow to lose Walter's advice, but this was a task he would trust nobody else with. Walter had been Logan's mentor, but to Rose he had been and still was – likely always would be – the closest thing to a father he had ever known. Walter would guard her better than anyone. "Keep her there and make sure she is safe."

Walter gave him a look that said this would not go easily. "I want Rose safe as much as you do, Logan, but I can't leave Bowerstone in good conscience while we have this attack to plan for."

"You will do it because I decree it as your king, Sir Walter."

"And, as your advisor, I have to tell you that I'm staying here. Logan, you said yourself you hardly know where to begin with your plans."

Logan wavered then. As much as he wanted Rose safe – as much as he placed her safety above all else – it was true that he would be lost without Walter's guidance. Besides, wouldn't it be a better guard for Rose if he knew she could grow up without fear of the Crawler? Without fear of being attacked, smothered by that darkness?

Walter sensed his advantage and pressed it. "Believe me, Logan, I'll do everything I can to keep Rose safe. For now, though… Well, let's take it slowly. Why not wait until Swift arrives and we've got hold of Reaver? Light willing, maybe this whole thing might not be as bad as it first seems."

"I suppose…" It was hard to make decisions. Logan's head was pounding and he was reminded of his thoughts from earlier; the surety the crown gave him, but also the fear of doing the wrong thing. "Very well. Say a month, to prepare and be sure of our information. That will be June; we'd normally leave Bowerstone then anyway."

"A fine plan," agreed Walter. "So: a summons for Swift, letters to the families of your men – compensation?"

Logan nodded. "We have enough gold to send the families their men's wages."

"Marvellous. You see to the letters, and the treasury can deal with the rest. And then Reaver – are you sure about the arrest warrant? It might send him to ground."

"I'm sure. I want him to realise the seriousness of the situation. Even if he does try to flee, his name and description can easily be circulated around the kingdom; he will not evade us for long."

"Very well," agreed Walter, although he did not look entirely convinced.

"And I will look over my mother's documents; they were sent to the archives, were they not?"

"Most of them; I think she bequeathed some of them to the Brightwall Academy." Walter drummed his fingers on the map thoughtfully. "I doubt she would have sent anything that has what you're after, though."

"And, of course, she might have hidden things anywhere. Mother always was secretive." Particularly about something like this, Logan added to himself.

"I'm sure you'll find it. If there's anything to be found, your mother wouldn't have wanted it to go to waste; just to be kept safe until the right time."

Logan sighed. Even though it felt as though everything was slowly coming together, he still felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the task set before him. Still, it helped that Walter had condensed the immediate future into manageable tasks.

"I hope you're right. Now, I won't delay you any longer – we both have work to do, it seems."

Walter gave him a nod of acquiescence. "If Swift can be spared, he ought to be here in a fortnight if the messenger leaves today."

"Very good." Logan was about to make a gesture of dismissal when Walter spoke up again.

"And Logan? I'd advise you to get some food and sleep before you do anything else. You're nearly at the point of collapse and you can't help anyone if you end up bedridden."

Logan grimaced at the thought of delaying the start of his tasks, but he saw the wisdom in Walter's words. "All right, but I will not delay long. If nothing else, there must be many out there desperate for news of sons and husbands."

"There's nothing to be done for the poor bastards now," Walter said, fairly and not without feeling. "They need news, but a few hours won't make a difference either way."

Piece said, he made to leave, only to be called back; Logan hardly knew the words were coming until they left his mouth.

"We… we _will_ win this, won't we?"

Logan thought it pathetic how _young_ he sounded; how unsure. He suddenly felt fifteen again, the glamour and gloss of the coronation over and he, little more than a child, faced with the work of the kingdom piled up around him. Now, as on that day, Walter gave him a warm and comforting smile.

"'Course we will!" he boomed, showing no sign of worry. "Never been a villain yet that Albion hasn't overcome somehow. Mark my words, Logan, you'll do your mother and the people of Albion proud."

It was as hearty a speech as he could have asked for and, if it did not banish the darkness within him, it at least temporarily saw it off to recesses not directly linked to his thoughts; Logan allowed Walter to quit him with a smile that was small but genuine.

They _would_ win. The Crawler would not take Albion, no matter what the cost.

* * *

**A/N:** And that is the last we'll see from Logan for a little while, at least directly! The influence of his decisions will be felt throughout the story, but as of the next chapter we'll be shifting the focus to a younger member of the royal family and the influences around her. Hopefully this won't be too disappointing; honestly, after this chapter, I won't be surprised if it's a relief to escape Logan's incessant angsting. 'Til next time, readers, and please do let me know your thoughts!


	3. Chapter II: A Game of Soldiers

Chapter II – A Game of Soldiers

A small figure crouched in what barely suitable camouflage could be had from the native greenery; so short and coloured in such a way as to make anything unlike it stand out starkly. Still, by means of taking up a position almost flat on the ground, a young girl had managed to hide herself quite suitably - only her comrade was able to spot and approach her, though taking care to do so in a roundabout way that would not attract undue attention.

"What's your report?" she whispered, scratching the ear of a small dog, barely out of puppyhood, which lay beside her, to stop him barking in recognition.

Her companion shook his head, a solemn expression on his face. "Nothing good, I'm afraid. Everywhere is locked up tight, and there are guards outside the war room. I can't get within five feet of it."

"Oh, _balls_!" cursed the princess, sounding - despite the disparity in age, sex and stature - remarkably like her mentor. A grin quickly replaced her frustration, though, when she saw her friend's expression; half-discomfort, half-excitement. "What? _He_ says it all the time!"

"I know, I'm just imagining what Jasper would say if he caught _you_ saying it!"

"Point taken." Rolling onto her back, the princess sighed as she looked up at the clouds. It was a fine spring day, and usually the sort she would spend playing with Elliot or else training with Walter, from whom she had extracted a solemn oath to teach her how to be a hero, like her mother, as best he could. "I wonder what they're doing. It's been two weeks since Logan got back and I've hardly seen him since the first morning!"

Elliot lay down next to her, expression thoughtful. "Who knows? It must be something serious, though. I mean… Well, your brother went out with some of his best men and… none of them, you know, came back."

Rose bit down on her lower lip. Although death was a concept she both accepted and was familiar with, it still chilled her to think of people laying down their lives like that. "Do you think… maybe there's going to be a war?"

"Maybe. But who with?"

"I don't know," Rose admitted. "Let's see… There's Samarkand, but us and them don't have much to do with each other, so I don't know why we'd be at war. And nobody seems to care much about the islands to the south…"

"What about the Eastern Kingdom and the Western Lands?" Elliot suggested.

"Mmm…" Rose wrinkled her nose, thinking. "I don't know. But it seems pretty odd to go to war with a place hardly anyone knows anything about, doesn't it?"

"I guess, but what if you brother knows something we don't?"

"He probably does. My brother knows everything. It's like he's, you know, omniwhatsit-"

"_Omniscient_, Your Highness," supplied a very familiar voice from behind them. "And may I suggest that you get up before those grass stains become absolutely immovable?"

Both children cringed and hastened to comply with a chorus of, "Sorry, Jasper!"

"Hmph." The elderly butler surveyed them both, but not without a good-natured gleam in his eyes. "And what have the two of you been up to today, then? Not more attempts to spy on the king's business, I hope?"

Rose glanced at Elliot; sure her face matched his expression of guilt exactly. He gave her a small, shrug-like gesture, as though to apologise for being caught. She shook her head slightly, sending him a smile that was swiftly returned. Such was their friendship that, when the situation necessitated it, words were unnecessary.

As this little exchange took place, Jasper sighed and set his hands on his hips. "I would ask to be furnished with an explanation as to why the very clear directions from myself, Sir Walter, and the king himself have been ignored, but I expect the answer is simply curiosity."

"It's never been like this before!" Rose burst out. "Jasper, what's happening? I haven't seen Logan hardly at all since he came back, and everyone looks like we're all about to die, or something!"

"I've heard rumours there might be a war," Elliot added, backing her up as ever, true friend that he was. "Are… are we really in danger, Jasper?"

"Of course not," replied the butler briskly, but Rose noticed he avoided looking either of them in the eye. "I assume the king is simply busy attending to the work of the kingdom that has needed to wait for his signature, or seal, or some such, to be completed. He has been away a long time; you would both be amazed at the work required."

"I know how hard he works," Rose said quietly. "He's always falling asleep in his study. But since he came back, he keeps doors locked, and there are guards outside the war room. I try to talk to him and he just tells me to go back to my lessons."

She looked down, Elliot's hand slipping into hers only a minor comfort. Despite the large age difference between them, Rose had always seen her brother as a comforting presence; even when he was not spending time with her, she knew that when he was not on a trip he was nearby and would always set aside his work if she needed him. Now, though, it was as though he had built a wall between them, and she was sure he was deliberately avoiding her.

"And rightly so, Your Highness, your education is of the utmost importance," Jasper replied, but softened and relented when faced with the picture she and Elliot made. "…I'm sure all is well, Rose," he added more tenderly. "And I am sure he will send for you when all is in order."

Rose sighed. "I don't see why my lessons are so important! It's not like I'm ever going to be Queen, is it? Logan's going to get married eventually and his children will inherit. I should be able to do what I like."

"And set up life as a spy?" Elliot quipped, grinning when she gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. "Hey! You're made for it!"

"Maybe I will, then! Or an adventurer! I'll explore all of Albion and collect treasure and meet everyone!"

"And let me rot here?"

"Of course not; you're my loyal knight, aren't you?" Rose asked, giggling when a certain dog set off barking. "And you as well, of course, Angus!"

"That's settled, then," Elliot declared, laughing. "The fair princess and her loyal knights will set out on a quest for fame, fortune and bold adventure!"

"Well, I'm glad you've both got that settled," said Jasper. "The kingdom, I am sure, will welcome such dutiful protects of its interests."

"Is that sarcasm I hear, old friend?" A familiar voice boomed across the gardens and Rose's face at once lit up.

"Walter!"

Darting past Jasper and Elliot, Rose ran towards Sir Walter - only to stop short when she saw he was with a soldier; a grand, although not unkind-looking, man with a magnificent moustache, his chest adorned with medals. Just from the medals, she would have known he was important; the fact that he was with Walter automatically increased her respect. There was also something about him that seemed oddly familiar, although she couldn't think why.

Suddenly, Rose rather wished she wasn't in a grass-stained shirt and breeches, with her hair falling out of a braid that had been messy to begin with. Most of the time, she considered royal etiquette to be endlessly boring and useless, but when faced with someone who was likely a comrade of Walter's, she wished she looked less like a gypsy child and more like a regal, dignified princess. She glanced at Jasper, hoping for once for some sort of prompting, but he had slipped away; probably gone to organize something or iron some clothes, as he swore the maids never got it quite right.

"Ah… hello," she added awkwardly, unsure of what to do or say. It wasn't often she met anyone of importance - Walter and Jasper aside, of course - and, even then, usually it was at some official ceremony or celebration or something and she was told the words to say and the steps to make. Boring but, at least, predictable.

The soldier, however, gave her a friendly wink. "Practicing camouflage, I see, Your Highness. Very wise; I wish my men were half as diligent in their training."

His easy turn of phrase and the wink set Rose at ease and she smiled. "Thank you, sir."

"Rose, this is Major Swift," Walter said, clapping the soldier on the shoulder. "He's one of the best commanders in the Royal Army."

The name struck a chord in Rose and, in a moment, she had it; the reason Major Swift looked familiar was because she'd seen him when she was a child, around the end of her mother's life and during the beginning of Logan's reign. He had been busy, but always had time to have a word with the young princess and console her with assurances that her brave mother was watching over her.

"I remember you!" she replied brightly. "You're part of the Old Guard, aren't you?"

"Someone's been training you well in your history ," remarked the major. "Indeed, yes, Your Highness. And…" he peered behind Rose. "Ah, you must be the young Lord Grey!"

Rose glanced over her shoulder to see Elliot stood a little behind her, blushing but stood straight and looking the major in the eye. "Yes, sir. Elliot Grey. I think my father fought with you at Brightwood?"

Major Swift nodded and, to the surprise of both children, held out his hand to Elliot, who shook it with a look of awe on his face. "One of the finest commanders I've ever seen in the field, your father, Light rest his soul. I doubt I'd be here now if he hadn't been on the field that day. How is your mother, by the way? Keeping well, I hope?"

Now, Elliot did duck his head, and it was Rose's turn to take his hand and give it a small squeeze of comfort.

"No, sir," he mumbled to the ground. "She… She passed away two winters ago."

Major Swift's expression was one of genuine regret as he laid a hand on Elliot's shoulder. "I'm sorry to hear that, lad. I'm sure you do them both proud, though, and your king and country as well."

"I intend to, Major," said Elliot, raising his gaze from the grass to glance from Major Swift to Rose. "And my princess."

"Rightly so, too," agreed the major. "Now, I'm sure the two of you have plans for the day, but if you could find the time to go to the kitchens, Your Highness, I'm sure you'd find a certain young man who wants to meet you."

"Oh?" Rose asked, utterly at a loss and completely oblivious to the way Elliot tensed beside her. "Who is it?"

"An old friend, I'm told, although for myself I wouldn't trust the scallywag as far as I can throw him," Major Swift replied cheerily. "Sir Walter has vouched for him, though, and I trust his judgement completely."

An idea of who this young man was came to mind and hope bloomed in Rose's heart. Her expectation must have shown on her face, given the indulgent smiles both Walter and Major Swift were giving her.

"I suppose we'd better go and see who this mystery man is, then, and make sure he's not an intruder," she remarked, trying to sound airy and unconcerned.

Walter waved them off and Major Swift gave a small bow with an accompanying, "Your Highness, Lord Grey," and they would have been off but for one question that came to mind. A question that occurred to her as she remembered that Major Swift was a veteran soldier, and the two of them had been the chief advisors to her mother, and the kingdom was now in danger.

So, looking up at the major and summoning every ounce of regal bearing, she asked: "Major Swift, are you here to speak with my brother?"

She had expected to be told to run along, or just not to worry, so it was surprising that, after a quick look that flashed between Major Swift and Walter, the soldier nodded. "Yes, I am. He wanted my advice on…" Another look; Walter shook his head slightly. "…A matter of state."

A lie, at least by omission. Little better, really, than being told to run along. "What is it?"

"I'm afraid it's not my place to say, Your Highness."

Rose opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get a word out, Walter finally said it. "I think you ought to run along, Rose."

Despite Elliot's insistent tug on her arm and his anxious expression, Rose stood her ground. Usually, matters of state flew over her head and she paid them no more attention than she did the butterflies in the castle gardens. The atmosphere of the castle had become harried and anxious since her brother's return, however, and she had the unshakable sense that something was very wrong.

"I'm the princess," she said, quietly but firmly. "I think I ought to know what's happening."

"Listen to me, Rose." Walter lowered his voice, his eyes taking on an intensity that coerced Rose into obedience. "I know you - both of you," he cast a glance at Elliot. "Are smart enough to know something's going on. Well, you're right, but with any luck we'll all come out of this right as rain. The best thing you can do right now is let Logan and the rest of us go to work, and sooner than you know it, everything will be back to normal."

"Are we in danger, Walter?" Elliot asked. He looked pale, Rose realised as she looked over at him, but serious with it.

"'Course not! Trust me, this will all be wrapped up before the month is out."

It was difficult not to trust Walter; he had always been truthful with her and Rose didn't doubt that now. His booming voice radiated confidence and encouragement and, despite herself, she found that she was smiling.

"Well… If you're sure… I suppose we do have other things to do, don't we, my knights?"

Elliot beamed, clearly grateful that the bout of rebelliousness was over; of the two of them, he was much more strait-laced, although as a minor lord got much less leeway than the princess, Rose supposed she couldn't really blame him.

"Like chasing imposters out of the castle," he reminded her.

"Good day, Major Swift, Walter!" Rose called out, echoed by Elliot, as he finally managed to tug her away from the confrontation and towards the kitchens.

Walter watched his protégée go with a heavy heart; with every joyful step Rose took as she bounded along with Elliot, he felt more and more like a fraud.

"She's remarkably like Sparrow," Swift mused, breaking him out of his dark thoughts. "You told me the resemblance was strong, but even so…"

"I know, it's like having Sparrow back again." It struck Walter less often, as he was with Rose almost constantly and had watched her grow up, but sometimes even he stood back and was simply stunned by how alike Rose was to her mother. "Brave to the point of foolishness, loyal, and she'd give you the shirt off her back if you needed it."

"Incredibly bull-headed, too," chimed in the major cheerfully. "I'll always remember Sparrow's tirade about the Academy. Never thought my ears would stop ringing. I'm sure Hobson's certainly haven't." Swift paused and shot Walter a searching look. As soldiers, they prided themselves on straightforward talk, but nobody spent any length of time at court without learning the trick of double-speak when necessary. Something else lay beneath the comparison of mother and daughter. "…I don't suppose she's shown any signs?"

"Apart from fighting like she was born with a sword in her hands?" Walter shrugged. "Nothing, just like Logan."

"Doesn't mean we're out of time, though. Sparrow herself was… what, eighteen, nineteen when she was given the Guild seal?"

"She knew she was a hero when she was twelve, though." Automatically, Walter lowered his voice again. Sparrow's origins were unknown to most and only a select few knew any more than the sketchiest outlines. Walter respected her decision to keep it that way.

"Yes, by being shot out of a window," Swift pointed out. "If she's a hero, I've no doubt we'll find out."

"I think she is." It was a theory Walter had confided in no one else, not even Jasper, but it had grown and flourished for several years now. "You should see her fight, Swift, and I haven't even started training her properly yet. And there's just a… a_ feeling_. Now I think I know why - if ever Albion needed a hero…"

"She'd be sixteen." They had walked as they talked and now, as they approached the edge of the gardens, Swift looked out over the city, deep in thought. "Young. Very young."

"I'm not sending her out to slaughter. If she's not ready, we'll find another way to beat this thing. And there's no guarantee she is a hero. I'll be the first to admit I don't really know what I'm looking for."

Swift sighed. "Damn it, I wish Sparrow had reformed the Guild. Even without the princess, if we had strength, skill, and will to fight with, we might have a chance."

"You know, we might be able to find them," Walter said slowly, wheels turning in his mind. "Sparrow said they went their separate ways - I never met them - but they might still be out there…"

Swift raised an eyebrow. "Now? It's been fifty years."

"And Sparrow didn't look a day over forty when she died," Walter reminded him. "Heroes are of a different breed. Who knows how long they live?"

"How in blazes can we go about finding them, though? They could be anywhere by now - wasn't one a foreigner?"

Walter nodded. "I think she said the Will user - Garth? He was from Samarkand. But Logan is set on going through all of Sparrow's old documents; he might turn up something useful."

"He's going through all of that?" Swift shook his head. "Well, good luck to him; I never knew anyone as disorganized with paperwork as Sparrow. What's he hoping to find, just something on the Heroes?"

"…Well, actually, old friend, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." They had wandered away from the fawning, simpering courtiers, but Walter still looked around to make sure they hadn't been followed. Swift, catching on as quickly as always, checked as well.

"We're alone," he confirmed. "What is it?"

"Logan told me about something he overheard between Sparrow and Reaver… oh, ten, twelve years ago. They were talking about Aurora, and Logan believes Reaver had tried to betray Sparrow to something - he thinks they meant the Crawler. Apparently they ran into something out there that made her furious at him."

"I wouldn't put it past him," replied Swift. "I never did trust that sly bastard." Then the full impact of what Walter had said sank in and his eyes widened. "Oh. Logan thinks Sparrow knew?"

"He's convinced of it." Walter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "And that he'll find proof of it somewhere. I'll be damned if he does; if Sparrow had known anything, she would have told us."

Swift didn't reply straight away and, when Walter glanced over at him, he saw the major wasn't meeting his eyes. Instead, he was looking out over the city. A chill crept up Walter's spine - it wasn't like Swift to be reticent, especially about something that concerned the safety of the kingdom. Seconds ticked by, and Walter was just about to ask his friend outright when Swift finally spoke up.

"I swear to you," he began, voice low and hoarse. "I swear on my honour, Walter, I didn't know anything about this creature."

"But Sparrow told you something?"

"Yes. I'd almost forgotten about it until you said that, but… Yes, she did." Swift cleared his throat and continued, his voice slightly stronger. "She told me there was potential in Aurora, and that she wanted to launch a full expedition there in time, but it was to be kept quiet until then. The two of us began working out the specifics, but before anything could come of it, well…" An awkward pause. Neither of them were entirely comfortable referring to Sparrow's death, even now. "I mentioned it to Logan, of course, but since I didn't know why Sparrow wanted the expedition, and there were better things to spend treasury funds on, it got abandoned."

"But she never mentioned the Crawler?" Walter pressed.

"Not once. I swear, I had no idea."

"I believe you, old friend," Walter assured him, clapping a hand on the major's shoulder. "Don't worry about that."

"I wonder, though…" Swift mused. "I wonder if Logan did abandon it. Did he know, or guess, something? He went to Aurora, after all."

Walter started. "By Jove, you're right! But he didn't know anything before he left, I'm sure - you should have seen him when he got off the ship, he was like a ghost."

"Who knows?" Swift asked, shrugging. "Bowerstone has been producing more wealth since Industrial has grown, maybe he remembered the plans and just decided to see what was out there now he had the gold to fund the trip?"

"It just doesn't make any sense, no matter what way you look at it," said Walter. "Sparrow might have known something, but she didn't tell anyone. Does that mean the Seer didn't go to her, even though she told Logan?"

"Perhaps she just hadn't foreseen it then," suggested Swift. "Who knows how predictions work?"

"But even so, something about it doesn't feel right."

"Well, there's nothing we can do except move forward," pointed out the major. "To be honest, old friend, I doubt we'll ever know whether or not Sparrow found the Crawler, or why, if she did, she didn't tell anyone. Especially since the guard can't find hide or hair of Reaver in Bowerstone - I suppose that is why he's wanted now?"

Walter grimaced. "Yes, I couldn't talk Logan out of issuing an arrest warrant. Damn it, I tried to warn him Reaver would go to ground! We'll probably never find him now - I suppose he took the first ship out of Bowerstone harbour back to Bloodstone."

"Just as we left," Swift pointed out with a small snort of humourless laughter. "Might even have passed his bloody ship on the way here."

"There was no way you could have known."

"I know, I know… All the same, once the king has had his fill of my advice, I'll happily chase the bastard down. Speaking of which," he added. "Where do we begin?"

In the castle kitchens, Benjamin Finn was not thinking of the Crawler. He had not yet heard exactly what the threat hanging over Albion was, and so it did not weigh on him overmuch. Especially not when he had a tankard of fine ale, a hearty plate of venison stew, and a pretty, attentive audience for his favourite pastime - storytelling.

"So there we were, surrounded by brigands, thieves, smugglers, pirates, and every other sort of crook you can imagine. There was, as we could see, no hope of escape, except just at that moment-"

The kitchen door banged open, followed by a tone of barking that was just downright rude, cutting him off. A gasp followed, and then an exclamation of: "Benjamin Finn, when did you become a soldier?"

Any irritation about being interrupted was swept away when he turned to look at the intruder, recognition coming far quicker than he would have expected. Grinning, he shot back, "When did _you_ become a ragamuffin, missy?"

Rose laughed and came charging towards him, hurtling herself at him in a hug that almost knocked him off his chair, a Border Collie puppy racing after her and running around Ben's legs. No sooner had he steadied himself - and saved his stew from being sacrificed to the dog - than a stronger punch than he would have thought a little girl capable of was delivered to his shoulder.

"_Ow_! Oi, what are you playing at?" he demanded, rubbing his wound. "Is that the sort of hello I get?"

"You didn't write! For a year! I thought something _horrible_ had happened to you!"

It had, actually, but even if Ben had no qualms about telling a little girl about his sinful doings in Bloodstone, the likelihood of his life coming to an end shortly afterwards would have given him pause.

"Me?" he asked, with his best rakish grin. "In trouble? Nah, never happened!"

The princess tried to stay stern, but her lips twitched upwards at the corners and then she broke into giggles.

"Oh, Ben!" she gasped when they subsided. "I'm so glad to see you!"

"I'm glad to see you, too, Rosie," he replied honestly. Ben wanted to do everyone who knew him proud now he was back to an honest life once again. Rose's happiness and enthusiasm reminded him of the man he used to be; the man he hoped to be once again. "I'm surprised you recognise me, honestly."

"Of course I do," said Rose, arching her eyebrows in a decidedly queenly manner. "I'm not going to forget the man who saved my life."

The kitchen maid who had been listening to his story now dared to intrude, wide-eyed. "Oh, did you really? Private Finn, you never said that!"

"I thought you would have told _everyone_ that," Rose said, rather more dryly than a little girl had any right to, Ben thought.

"Oh, so a common soldier isn't supposed to be humble, is he?" he demanded, trying his best to look offended.

"No," replied the princess with a shrug. "But a common Ben Finn isn't very humble. I remember you when my brother gave you that medal. Walter said you looked like a cock in a henhouse."

"Well, if that's what a person gets for saving a princess from certain death, I don't know why all those fellers in stories run about doing it all the time."

"You did it because you're good," Rose said, and for a moment Ben's heart began to melt at her simple, childish honesty and rose-tinted view of the world. It all shattered a moment later, when she added, "And then my brother made you rich."

"That was only after! I didn't know that going in, did I? Didn't know who you bloo-_who_ you were! Just a little girl who'd wandered off from her grandfather or something, I thought, and decided she wanted to go Hobbe-hunting."

"I could have managed Hobbes, you know." Rose seemed to think it very important this point was made clear. "I had a gun."

"A toy gun, love, that shot tiny pellets," Ben reminded her. "Trust me, it doesn't work."

Rose was not to be deterred from her quest to prove herself right, though. "Well, maybe I'll try it again, when I'm an adventurer with a real gun! And a sword!"

"Oh, yeah? And what does His Nibs think to you going off on adventures?"

"Oh, he doesn't know yet. I just decided a little while ago, before Major Swift came and told-oh!" Rose broke off and turned with wide eyes back to the door. "Elliot, I'm _so sorry_!"

Peering past Rose, Ben spotted a boy of about the same age as the princess, dressed in plain but clearly expensive clothes, slouched by the door. At her apology, he shrugged awkwardly and offered her a small smile, brown hair flopping into his eyes.

"Well, I suppose he's really not an intruder, then, at least?" The boy - Elliot - offered.

"Oi, you weren't supposed to tell 'em that until _after_ I nicked the silver," Ben quipped, only to be ignored - well, except the kitchen maid, who didn't seem to have a very good grasp of sarcasm and started hiding any valuables less subtly than she thought she was.

Flushing to the shade of her namesake, Rose shook her head. "Let me introduce you..." she paused for a moment, and Ben could have sworn he could hear the cogs turning in her head as she tried to remember the proper form for introductions. Bless her. "Elliot, this is Private Benjamin Finn. Ben, may I introduce my very dear friend, Lord Elliot Grey."

"Pleased to meet'cha, milord." Ben stretched out his hand, but Elliot only looked at him uncertainly, as though trying to decide if he was being mocked. Or maybe he was insulted by the lack of bowing and scraping, but Ben reckoned Rose had more sense than to run around with someone like that. "Come on, I don't bite. Promise."

"Elliot!" Rose hissed when her friend still didn't move. "What are you _doing_?"

Elliot didn't say anything, but he finally pushed himself away from the door and came over to shake Ben's hand. At first, Ben was impressed by the boy's strong grip, until he realised this was Elliot's attempt at brushing his fingers. Now, what had he done to cause such offence?

For Rose's sake, he didn't mention it. Instead, he just grinned at the boy. "There. No biting, just as promised."

There was no returning smile from the boy, and he pulled his hand away as soon as he could, pointedly looking away from Rose. For her part, the princess was staring at her friend as if she did not know him.

"Well..." Ben cleared his throat, trying to think of a way to dispel the growing tension in the room. "Who wants to hear that story, then?"

"I'm afraid I can't." Elliot spoke for the first time, his tone stiff. "I'm wanted elsewhere."

"...No, you're not." Rose frowned. "Elliot, what are you talking about?"

But Elliot was already making for the door, pausing only to call over his shoulder, "Sir Walter wanted me for something, I shouldn't keep him waiting."

"But Elliot-!" Rose jumped off the table and ran to the kitchen door. "Elliot-ugh! He's gone!" Sighing, she turned back to Ben apologetically. "I'm so sorry; I don't know _what's_ gotten into him."

"Oh, don't worry, I know it's hard, being exposed to my charm for the first... time..."_ Oh_. Oh, of _course_. They were still kids, but they were growing up - Rose would be, what, twelve or so by now? And Elliot about the same age. And Elliot had walked in just as Rose was fussing over him.

"What _is_ it?" Rose asked, bringing him back to the moment. Her head was tilted to one side, and she was frowning at him now. "Honestly! Not you as well! Is there something in the air affecting men today?"

Ben waved her concerns away, wondering if he could realistically get hold of Elliot on his own at some point. "Nah, it's nothing. Hey, how about you show me how to distract Woofy here before he goes for my dinner?"


End file.
